


European Son

by bauer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Daddy Kink, Erectile Dysfunction, Hero Worship, Identity Porn, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Religious Themes, Unsafe Sex, for lack of a better tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 15:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: Hertl has patterned his game after Jagr’s — some in the Czech media have already labeled Hertl “the next Jagr.”So how often has the first Jagr heard that?“He’s probably number three,” Jagr said. “Twenty-five years, that’s not too bad.”





	European Son

**Author's Note:**

> So... I missed Christmas. Both of them. Oh, well, here I am anyway. Tomáš is a couple months younger in this fic than in reality, feel free to point out any embarrassing typos, so on and so forth.
> 
> Title is from the Velvet Underground song, [summary from this article.](https://www.mercurynews.com/2013/11/23/jaromir-jagr-and-tomas-hertl-reunited/)

The year of 1993 is a significant one for Jaromír. The country he was born in ceased to exist. Mario got sick, missed a quarter of the season. The Penguins earned the President’s Trophy, only to drop against the Islanders in Game 7.

Summer went on and on and on.

 

+++

 

The years go by. Moments so good no heaven could compare. Others so lonely that Jaromír was sure that such a state couldn’t exist, at least not for him. 

On and on and on.

 

+++  

 

_ “ _ _ Tatínek,” _ the boy beneath him sighs. It falls from his lips easy, as it had with many before him. Even more, now, it seems. Still, its effects aren’t lost on Jaromír, who grunts and tucks lush thighs just a little bit tighter against a thick chest. The coarse hair covering both goes a way to undermine any feigned youth in his voice. Of course, they’ve been doing this long enough that Jaromír had been able to watch that sign of maturity fade in, on someone less than half his age. So, perhaps acting isn’t necessary in the first place.

Jaromír huffs, watches himself screw into a fucked-red hole, still clinging to him so tightly. “Yeah? Gonna be good for your daddy?”

“Uh huh,” he moans, face screwed up but not so tightly he can’t stare up a Jaromír, a worship there that cannot be faked.

Jaromír looks away first, to a red mouth, flushed cheeks that flood down his neck. Sometimes, he tells himself that he only does this sort of play for the kids’ benefit, but it’s a lie. He can feel it, in the way his voice softens as he says, “Can you hold yourself open for me? There you go, so good for me,” and how his heart burns when his boy’s face slackens,  _ radiates  _ under his care.

With his hands free, he takes his time groping at ass, balls, prick—all substantial—while the hole he’s still fucking steadily flutters excitedly around him. The way he rolls when Jaromír’s fingers press too firmly at the purple crown of his cock has him thinking that the boy is close, but Jaromír knows he’ll let Jaromír fuck him through it, until he finds his own release in his body. He wants to be good, after all.

For how unholy an action this is, Jaromír can hardly believe a saint has not blessed him.

“Tomáš,” Jaromír starts, then changes, “Baby, are you going to come? Do you need my hand?”

“No,” Tomáš says quickly. “Only need you.”

Jaromír didn’t doubt Tomáš, exactly, but it still amazes him when his face and body scrunches up in a tell-tale brace for orgasm, shaking as his cock spurts white against his summer-tanned stomach with both of their hands preoccupied gripping those fantastic thighs of his.

It takes longer—longer than ideal—for Jaromír to follow, grinding in and out and breathing deeply until he fills the condom proper.

Afterwards, he enjoys the comforts of his own bed, and does not mind when Tomáš tucks himself close.

 

It’s worse when they wake up, and the boy is hungry.

“Then feed yourself. You’re an adult,” Jaromír says. An afternoon nap was a mistake, and he isn’t looking to disturb his routine any further. Going out for a second lunch is for younger men who may still have growth tucked away in their bones instead of dust. “I’m not responsible for feeding for you, I don’t get paid like I used to.”

“I don’t want to go sit at a table  _ alone,” _ Tomáš wheedles. He is still pressed close to Jaromír, smiling cheerfully, like his downfall is something that brings him great joy. “I can pay. Treat you to some fruit or something if you won’t eat.”

Jaromír grouses and grabs his wallet from where he last tossed it. He is getting old, and soft.

 

+++

 

They train together very occasionally, which is more to say sometimes Tomáš knows where to trail after him. The two of them have different needs, where they are in their careers. Jaromír works hard, every day, but a part of him still resents that his body will not fully tolerate the relentless  _ gogogo  _ he can still see in Tomáš. There is nothing to be done about it. It is the way of nature.

The boy looks good flushed and dripping with sweat as he tries to catch his breath between reps. He isn’t lithe by any stretch of the imagination, but his body still clung to a youthful tenderness on top of his bulk. Jaromír isn’t humble enough to be intimated. It’s a view he can appreciate. 

Tomáš’s eyes follow him with such reverence when he thinks Jaromír is too distracted by his own routine.

 

+++

 

“Do you know what you’re doing in the fall?”

Jaromír barks a laugh. His agent is frantic, another assurance on his tongue during every phone call. “No.”

Tomáš won’t look at Jaromír as he speaks, too preoccupied with coming his fingers through Jaromír’s leg hair, as he didn’t have plenty of his own or Jaromír didn’t have much nicer hair further up. His tone is still light when he says, “Well, you’d be welcome in San Jose. I have a good team out there, you’d like them.”

Jaromír cannot imagine what could possibly be so special about Tomáš’s trainers in California. He’s perfectly prepared to leave the idea at a polite hum before the idea truly hits him. And then he truly laughs.

“Are you asking me to  _ move in with you?”  _ Jaromír cann ot stop laughing, and it only gets worse when Tomáš tries to pull together a more serious face. “Tomík, don’t be an idiot. You cannot shack up with some old, strange man. Go find a nice woman and start a family. They’re beautiful in California.”

Tomáš, always the optimist, says, “I think I could start a family with anyone who’d let me.”

“That’s nice, boy.” Jaromír does not tell him he will play in Kladno before retiring as some old trophy, a relic, in America. For better or worse, he enjoys the look on Tomáš’s face.

 

+++

 

It is not quite a mistake when Jaromír meets Tomáš’s parents.

Tomáš enjoys driving Jaromír around, the same way he enjoys cooking for him, undressing him, running after every one of Jaromír’s whims, which is to say, joyfully if somewhat lacking in skill. So it telegraphs quite obviously when something occurs to Tomáš, his ever-present smile skipping then freezing in place, sentence cut off in the middle, knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

“Something wrong?” Jaromír prompts after a few long moments of watching Tomáš’s eyes flick about.

“No, I—I was supposed to pick something up from my parents. Forgot about it,” Tomáš answers quickly. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’ll drop you off at home and then I can go—”

They had just finished dinner at a restaurant that Tomáš had enjoyed when he was younger; nice enough, but Jaromír could already see where nostalgia wa s tainting Tomáš’s taste. The sun was still hovering in the sky, but it was getting late. His own apartment is clear on the other side of the city. The neighborhood Tomáš grew up in is very close.

“What, you don’t think they would want to meet  _ Jaromír Jágr?”  _ he says, flexing, smirking, dazzling until Tomáš’s smile thaws.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Tomáš asks.

“Why would I?” Tomáš just laughs instead of responding. 

The drive is short, although Tomáš seems to say a thousand things in the time given. He only really falls silent in a brief pause before the door opens, only to launch forward again. “Máma! This is Jaromír. Jarda. Jagr. I told you we were training together now, remember?”

Tomáš’s mother isn’t once-beautiful, because that would mean that Jaromír was once-handsome, with dark, heavy eyes and a round face that hardens to a rigid neutrality when she takes in the sight at her doorstep. Tomáš has never once called Jaromír  _ Jarda,  _ and he wonders if she can hear the clumsiness on his tongue. 

“You were training at this hour?” she asks, skipping any further introductions.

“Well, you know, we’re friends, too, we eat dinner together sometimes,” Tomáš responds, and it’s with painful earnestness of someone who still isn’t used to lying to their mother. 

Jaromír stands up straighter, winds up the charm; he never notices when it slides with Tomáš. He reaches out a hand and starts to speak, “Mrs.  Hertlová, it’s a pleasure to meet the woman who—”

“I’m sure,” she interrupts, not moving to meet Jaromír. “Tomáš, your father is in the living room, he’ll show you what boxes to take.”

Tomáš shoots Jaromír what’s probably meant to be a reassuring look as he inches past the woman, leaving Jaromír frozen at the doorstep.

It has been a long time since he’s had to charm a mother. He reorientates himself in a second, but before he can draw a full breath, two hard knuckles are punching in against the flesh of his stomach. He bends more in shock than agony, but the blow wasn’t insignificant, either. When he looks up again, rage has melted off her mask

“Don’t recognize me, hm?” she says, voice still carefully cold. Jaromír looks closely, but all he recognizes is from Tomáš, besides the temperment. When he doesn’t respond, she smiles, but not kindly. “My name is  Natálie.  _ Nat, _ you called me, like you were still in America. And I was so charmed.”

She laughs at this, although there is no humor in it. Shame has never been something that comes easy to Jaromír, but it does then. He couldn’t even narrow it down to a year. It’d been decades, in all likelihood. Hell, probably even longer than Tomáš has been alive, with any luck—  

“Do not pity me,” Natálie hisses, sounding like she greatly wishes earlier hadn’t been the end of the violence. Jaromír pulls himself together, and when he is suitably attentive, she continues, “Let me be clear. I have lived a happy life without you.  _ Tomáš  _ has lived a happy life without you, as fixated as he was a child. Your absence has been the greatest blessing you could have given our family, so I ask this of you; you leave our son out of your deviance, and you burn alone in hell. It is the very least you could do at this point, Jarda.”

She spits his name like a curse, and it burns him. 

 

+++

 

Natálie does not make a scene. Jaromír crosses the threshold into her home. He does not sit or ask for a glass of water, nor is he offered them.

The man Tomáš knows as his father is thin, kind, with hair the color of dried wheat. They load the back of Tomáš’s X Series—a much more sensible purchase than Jaromír’s first had been—and leave in short order.

 

+++

 

In his apartment, Tomáš drops to his knees in prayer. He bows his head and opens his mouth to receive his communion, humble and deferential as he chokes himself on Jaromír’s cock. His eyes are bright with tears that haven’t spilled. Somehow, even with his lips stretched tight and face strained, Tomáš finds a way to look so happy. Radiant.

_ Deviance, _ Natálie had said. Jaromír has plenty of vices. Playing with fire. The inability to deny himself anything. If she had known this one, would he have ever left that porch step? No, he can’t imagine so. She would have fed him to the pigs.

Jaromír lowers his hand to the pale crown and hot flesh that he helped create, a concept that absolutely throbs in his stomach.  _ Tomáš. _ A plain name, perhaps not one Jaromír would have chosen, but that hardly matters. He raises his head at the touch, and Jaromír asks, “Do you want to fuck me?”

The boyish overenthusiasm returns once again, and it takes a moment of soothing, guidance, and coaching before Jaromír allows him between his legs. When the first probing touch comes, it is gentle, careful. As to be expected; Tomáš was raised well.

And, because he is young and comes from an incredibly virile line, he fucks like a well-oiled train, powerful, steady, purposeful. His face, though, is too soft for iron. It pours out every warm, tender, loving feeling that flickers across his brain. They all come easily to him, and frequently.

Jaromír imagines having had that light tucked up against him for twenty years. How the love of not another little Czech boy but a  _ son  _ would have felt in his darkest moments.  Then he pictures Tomáš watching his failures not as those of a man on TV but of his  _ father,  _ and there is no bottom to Jaromír’s shame. No. Natálie and her husband brought Tomáš up well. Saved him from a doomed life, until Jaromír came crashing back in.

It’s a hell of a thing to be thinking about as you’re getting fucked as well as you’ve ever been fucked. Tomáš eyes the erection he’d worked so hard to raise start to lag with no small amount of trepidation, but Jaromír just shakes his head at him. He’d known at the start that there was no way he would be coming tonight.

There is little more sacred than a father and son. Jaromír could hardly have fucked it up worse. Now, there is no doubt in his mind now about the existence of heaven and hell, or which fate awaits him, if he is not there already. In a way, the certainty of his damnation brings him closer to God than he’s been in a long, long time.

Jaromír cups Tomáš’s round, beautiful face and says, “You’re such a good boy for me, so dear. I love you.”

He doesn’t mean to say it, but he hates realizing that it is true, that it likely wasn’t that morning. Tomáš, for his part, looks as though he’s seen the sun for the first time. He inhales sharply and his hips stutter. Tears might be in his eyes as he freezes, moans pitifully, and plants himself as deep into Jaromír as he could.

Because he’s such a painfully well-behaved boy, shame colors his cheeks not long after, and he withdraws quicker than is strictly comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Tomáš stutters, even as his is drawn like a magnet to the mess he’s made, fingers soft against Jaromír’s seeping hole. “I—I love you, too, god, so much, Jaromír—”

Tomáš, Jaromír believes, is an atheist.

**Author's Note:**

> I did some light research to make sure Orthodox theology doesn’t clash with the religious notes I wanted to add (which were influenced by own branch) and some poet who dicks around on the Christian views of hell Wikipedia dropped this - “One expression of the Eastern teaching is that hell and heaven are dimensions of God's intensifying presence, as this presence is experienced either as torment or as paradise depending on the spiritual state of a person dwelling with God. For one who hates God and by extension hates himself as God's image-bearer, to be encompassed by the divine presence could only result in unspeakable anguish.”
> 
> Shockingly, I’m not a deeply religious person, but some things just make you want to lie down for a minute, you know?


End file.
